I have declared today your birthday, at least on this hook-shaped island.
If I swim out past the buoy, I'll find the rest of your slippers caught in a green net.
In a raft made of cardboard and cattails, rain matters.
Far from the hum/buzz of the electric company's cages, far from the sodium lights on restless hatchbacks.
Some here believe that you outswam that wave, that you're still somewhere in the tree tops, shivering and burning.
Sea-sickness as rare as a mother without her fishing gear.
Mallards weep beneath the docks, rip starfish into hopeless shreds.
But the birth rate is high, even among the punch drunk walruses.
Dry rot almost unheard of, the world is so moist.
Like the sky, the bay a quiet butter-cream dotted with life rafts.
In my mirror dinghy, I see you laying on your back, watching the stars snap on like night lights.